


winds change

by divinetock3



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Epilogue, F/M, POV John Marston, Reader-Insert, References to Depression, Spoilers, irony is fun to play with ain't it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinetock3/pseuds/divinetock3
Summary: john has been trying to get some of that life arthur told him about, but first he needs to talk to someone close to arthur's past.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	winds change

**Author's Note:**

> song: winds change by orville peck  
> i'm replaying rdr2 right now and it's been a rough week so i've been all up in my emotions lately and wanted to therapeutically get something out. i literally just started the game- like, only just now got my horse- but i couldn't stop thinking about what's to come and couldn't help myself........ possibly more to come? maybe? my love for arthur is unending so i think it's safe to say there will always be something coming for him

The past few months have been hectic. Making Beecher's Hope into a home has taken up the better part of John’s time; the rest is spent sleeping and eating, and he’s even been forgetting to do those things too. Sleeping lends to hauntings, so John tries his best to keep on his feet, busy his hands—and, by default, his head. 

This is all for Abigail and Jack. That’s what keeps him going. He can’t be the one to tear this family apart; he just won’t allow it. As long as he’s above ground, everything he does needs to be for them. He knows what it’s like to lose family. It won’t happen again.

And so him, Uncle, and Charles have been breaking their backs for this damn place. He’ll admit it: the place is coming along nicely, practically finished. John realizes by the fire late one night, the other two passed out, that this is the first time in years that he’s felt a sense of pride. Finally— _finally_ —he’s getting something right. As glad as he is, he can’t get out of his head just how long it’s been since he’s felt a sense of purpose. _Is this truly living?_

In between all this time, an idea has struck John. Something that’ll truly guarantee his future happiness with Abigail. But first he needs permission.

It takes months of asking around, then laying low, then asking even more. He really doesn’t want people to know John Marston is slipping through towns unnoticed, nor does he want them to seek the person he’s looking for. From the little he’s heard, she has a nice life; he doesn’t want to impose, but it’s important to him that he do this. He has to, he just knows it deep down. It’s the right thing to do after…

Well, after.

 _I’ve heard she’s in Strawberry. Got a job makin’ beds at a hotel there_ , his acquaintance tells him. John doesn’t need to hear more. He takes a ride out that next morning, not bothering to tell the boys where he’s going. It’s between him and her—even if she doesn’t know he’s coming.

Jittery, John arrives in Strawberry and heads straight to the hotel in the center of town. The wood creaks as he mounts the porch steps. He allows himself inside, finding a cozy, spacious foyer with plush couches and a fire crackling in the corner. 

“Hello there, friend. You lookin’ for a room?” asks a man at the desk, dressed nicely. He has a curling mustache, a kind glint in his eye. A rarity nowadays.

“No, I...uh, actually, I’m lookin’ for someone, and I hear she works here. Called [Name].”

“Ah, yes, you heard correct. She ain’t in at the moment.”

“You mind givin’ me her address? I know this ain’t the most...She’s a friend. Family, really.”

The man eyes up John. “What’d you say your name was?”

 _Fuck it._ “John. John Milton.”

“It’s a rough world out there, Mr. Milton, so even though I wanna believe you, I’m gonna play it safe, I hope you understand. How abouts I give her a message and if she wants you comin’ ‘round, I’ll send word?”

It’s better than nothing, so John gives the man a postal code and leaves with his tail between his legs. He knows without a doubt it was [Name] herself that ensured such privacy among the folks she works with. It’s smart: Anyone that comes around looking for her has to get approval first. She must truly be putting the Van Der Linde life behind her. Good. They all need a little of that.

He returns close to noon and before he can dismount his horse Uncle is calling, “Where was ya? We was lookin’ all over—” 

“Supply run,” says John shortly. Charles and Uncle share a glance—he doesn’t even have any ‘supplies’ on him—but they say nothing. John isn’t the most forthcoming of men.

+++

A little over a week later, the house finished, John goes into Blackwater to find he has mail. An unmarked envelope. His first thought is Abigail—he sent out his letter only a few days ago, asking her to come back to him—but inside is a letter with very little written, yet enough that John’s heart soars: “ _Come by anytime. Might I suggest a fake surname that isn’t so close to the real one?_ ”

[Name], undoubtedly. It gives him a chuckle. He rides out right then.

He returns to the hotel, procures an address, and arrives at her doorstep in little time. It isn’t until the precious second before his knock hits the door that his nerves bundle up in a knot at the pit of his stomach. It’s been a few years. Once upon a time they were all best friends and singing around a fire. Then everything went to shit, as always. Very few of them made it out alive, and some days he wonders if he still truly is—alive, that is. It’s lifelong, the pain.

Then he knocks.

It’s early, but he hears stirring almost immediately and the door opens seconds later. Her hair is shorter, her cheeks fuller, but God damn if it ain’t her. A smile cracks his mouth. “It’s been a while,” he says, flustered.

“Sure has.” Her mouth spreads into a tight-lipped smile, and suddenly she’s pulling him into a hug. Her arms wrap nicely around his slim waist and he lays his face in her hair. A swell erupts in his heart: As angry as he may be, he would give up anything to go back to how it was. (Although, this time around, he would eliminate a few choice members from the gang.) He didn’t realize just how much it all hurt him until he had his arms around her. Realizing what could’ve been.

She pulls away first and holds him at a distance. “You look strong, Mr. Milton. What’ve you been up to?”

“Buildin’ a house, if you can believe it.”

She guffaws with amusement. “I can’t. Come on in, I’ll put some food in you.”

Her cabin is small, but more than enough. No surprise: she has stacks of books on any available surface. On the kitchen table lies an opened journal, the pages full of ink. She shuts it before he can catch a glimpse inside. He can only begin to imagine her perspective on the downfall of the gang. She probably knows more than him, considering the company she kept. 

But it’s a sore spot, so he sticks to pleasantries: _How have you been? Why move to Strawberry? Do you like it here?_ They eat and talk for about an hour, filling in the gap that is the past two years of silence. Each of them scattered like cockroaches when the light came on. He’s having a hard time tracking everyone down; it seems they all got what they wanted: anonymity.

(He hopes the others are well.)

“Abigail is sure to come back,” she says after he’s finished his tale. “She loves you so much. And Jack needs his father, she’ll see that.”

“I sure hope so.” A comfortable silence passes as John pokes a fork at his now-cold food. He clears his throat. “Actually, that’s kinda why I wanted to see ya. Not that this hasn’t been nice—”

[Name] smiles at him. “I’m not offended. What is it, John?”

“Well, uh.” John hesitates, coughs into his fist. “I have something I wanna give her, but I wanted yer permission first.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “What for?”

“Well, I thought that since me ‘n Abigail are tryin’ to figure things out, I wanna propose. Give her a...proper marriage. Make sure she knows I’m serious this time ‘round.”

“That’s sweet, John.”

“I have it all planned out. The only hitch is that the ring I got ain’t mine to be givin’. It’s yours, actually.”

There’s a measure of confusion in [Name]’s face, but he can see in her eyes that deep down she understands what this is all coming down to. His throat is tightening as he realizes he has to say it; the words feel impossible.

“What do you mean?” she asks tentatively.

He hasn’t said his name in years. (Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about him every single day.) “Arthur...gave it to me way back when. Said to...be a man and be with my family. That’s the last thing he ever said to me. Problem is he gave it to me before he could give it to you.”

John can see it in her face: She doesn’t talk much about Arthur either, but it’s still a sharp, persistent pain. He doesn’t suspect it’ll ever go away for either of them. “What—” she starts, but John cuts her off:

“I have Arthur’s journal.”

+++

Arthur returned from Guarma less of a person. He was _exhausted_. The heavy way in which he slept made her heart ache. There was no denying that something in the gang had irrevocably shifted. Hell, she wasn’t even there, but she still woke up from nightmares of Hosea getting gunned down. She would cry into her pillow, missing a man that was once her father, and the man that was undoubtedly the love of her life.

She was fortunate to have the latter come back to her, but Arthur wasn’t the same as he once was. He was more wary than ever. He stared at Dutch from across the camp like he was a ghost and jumped at the slightest touch. Even when they were alone, he got lost in his head. She had to repeat herself because he would slip out of reality, forget where he was.

What’s saddest was that when she asked him about what was going on in that skull of his, he acted as if all was well—for her sake. _Nothin’, darlin’, nothin’ at all. Empty as always._ She always hated when he leaned into the idea that he was dumb, thoughtless; the Arthur she’d grown to love was anything but one-dimensional. He had more heart than all of them combined.

The first time she got him alone after they came back, she helped him wash up in silence. His body was sunburnt and stringy, the muscles weakening from what she assumed was starvation and dehydration. No new scars, though—all internal. The only thing she could bring herself to say was, “I’m sorry about—” and then she’d stopped herself, unable to even breathe his name: _Hosea. Your father. Mine, too._ It was still so fresh and raw, an untouched wound on her heart.

Arthur had understood: “Me too.” And that was that.

Life tried to continue on as best it could. The gang was trying fruitlessly to just get the hell out of the area, just _survive_ to see the next day. Even that was getting harder and harder. Ever since Blackwater, they kept getting picked off like flies. [Name] was getting more and more paranoid, living in utter fear that she’d either wake up to news of a death or that she’d be the one meeting the cloaked reaper. The Pinkertons were closing in at every step, and she sometimes sat on the edge of the lake and pondered if a pocket full of rocks was a better fate.

Worst of all was Arthur’s cough. He never told her a word, but she knew. God, she knew. She could fuckin’ smell it on him, and that was what drove her most insane. The sickness burrowed inside of him was radiating and she thought she was going mad with how potent it was to her. Nobody ever said anything, but when he got into a fit and was fighting to breathe through the coughing, she’d catch the others exchanging looks. That, out of everything, made her want to scream. _Someone, please, help him. Don’t just let this go on!_

But none of them could do a thing. The closest Arthur ever got to confessing it to her was one night when, a little drunk, she tried kissing him when they were alone. He held her shoulders back. Heartbroken, she was speechless. All he could say was, “I don’t know if you could…” _Catch this_ , is what he’d wanted to finish with, but their entire relationship was sentences drifting off and words stopping mid-air. She always knew what he was trying to say, but sometimes she just wanted him to spit it out, be upfront. But the truth was that she didn’t think she could stand to hear the words out loud anyways.

She stuck to pecking his cheek after that. They never kissed again.

Some days [Name] woke up, took out her horse to an empty field far from camp, and just screamed. It was risky—Pinkertons could surround her easily; she was just one woman—but she didn’t care; they were all going down anyways. She knew it deep down. It was the sickly anticipation of it that twisted her insides into knots. What kind of life was this? She was _miserable_. As a little girl she wanted to be a cowboy, fight the bad guys, defeat the establishment, but it was never supposed to go like this: her only family dwindling day by day, her prince slowly withering away, her siblings wracked with fear. 

She hated Dutch ever since she met him. He was more a sickness than the one eating at Arthur. Her favorite pastime was watching Dutch from across the camp and imagining all the ways she would tear him apart, limb by limb, make him scream. John and her would sit by the fire and John would be ranting and raving about the man that was once his father. Him, and Micah. They were both fork-tongued and red-eyed. How they could’ve all fallen under their spells at one time or another...she could never truly get over that. 

Through all this tumult, one memory stands out strong:

Pearson and Uncle gathered up their things late one night—or early one morning, depending on how you looked at things—and left. [Name] couldn’t sleep and Arthur was still God-knows-where with Charles, so she set up a chair by the water and watched the sky darkening, the stars glowing, the moon beaming. At least through all of this pain and trouble some things stayed the same. A welcome reminder that life, somewhere far from there, was still moving on for some people.

The two men told her they didn’t trust Dutch, that they didn’t want to die out there like the others had. She said very little, just listened and wished them well, watched them leave, all while wondering if she had the strength to do the same as them. Maybe she could talk Sadie or Abigail into coming with her. Jack didn’t need this in his young life; she would guilt Abigail into it if she had to. In her eyes, it was more cowardly to stand by that Van Der Linde fool than to hide away.

Arthur came back in the morning, stumbling into their tent. He looked awful and she didn’t say a word, just opened her arms to him and he held onto her like a child. She stroked his hair, pet his cheeks, as his chest rattled and the occasional cough came bursting through. He was pushing himself too hard. Whatever it was he had was going to take him away from her sooner than later. 

At some point she was weeping. The tears came out of her with ease, not a single utterance coming from her. It was fear and—somehow, simultaneously—understanding. There was no escaping what was to happen.

“I been thinkin’,” he said faintly, “‘bout how strange it is that we could live so much life but none at all at the same time. I been...runnin’ since I was a boy. I’ve had some real fun times, but this past year’s been hell. Ain’t nothin’ fun ‘bout this life. Sometimes I wish I never met ya.”

“Why?”

“So you coulda been happier. You coulda had so much. ‘Stead yer here with me while everythin’ goes to shit.”

One of her tears dripped down into his hair. “It’s all worth it to have known you,” she said, nearly choking on the words. It was then that Arthur sat up and saw her crying. He wiped the tears with his thumb and held her cheek, looking into her face.

“Maybe I coulda given you more...if it weren’t for…” _I know._ “A pretty home. My pretty wife.” He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Maybe a few rascals runnin’ around, playin’ in the mud. A mutt barkin’ up a storm and chasin’ rabbits.”

Through the tears, she found the strength to giggle at this unseen future. “I could be a teacher. You’ll stay at home taking care of the kids.”

Arthur smiled, the biggest smile she’d seen from him since Guarma. “I would. You’d never hear me complain.” And she knew she wouldn’t. He’d be so perfect for that life.

And the mere imagining of little children crawling all over Arthur and his sunny smile as they played with him made her break down. Hysterical, ugly sobs that shook her frame and made her rip apart. This was acceptance, but the worst kind. A reluctance. Giving in. This wasn’t what she wanted for them. Foolishly, she really thought they’d make it out of this.

Arthur spent the morning of his last day on Earth making sure she was ok. That seemed perfectly fitting for his character.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”

“I love you.” He kissed her forehead. “We’ll be alright.”

Somehow, she fell asleep. And he went to speak with Dutch.

+++

“His...his journal?”

“That, and the ring. I wanted you to have ‘em, but you were gone after he was buried. We all were. Ever since them in Guarma and me in prison...we all came back together, but it weren’t the same. Never was gonna be neither. Dutch...Dutch fucked everythin’ up. Wasn’t til Arthur passed that I realized we can’t be a family no more, even the ones left alive. I’ve had Arthur’s things ‘n...it’s funny, seein’ how he started writin’ it lovin’ Dutch and life, but as time goes on it gets worse ‘n worse. Except you, of course. Yer there through it all ‘n he never stopped lovin’ you.”

Her eyes start watering. “John—”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I came here ruinin’ yer new life ‘n makin’ things hurt, but I had to. I can’t give this ring away knowin’ you might be out there wantin’ somethin’ to...remember him by, I s’pose. I can go out ‘n buy a new ring. I just wanted to ask because...it’s Arthur. Arthur’s my brother. And my brother told me to get a life ‘n I’m...shit, [Name], I’m tryin’.”

“Can I see it?”

John goes digging into his pocket. The ring is small, normal, but the mere sight of it makes [Name] fracture. John can see in her face how much it hurts to reopen this wound, but he knows there’s a sort of religion in reliving the suffering they’ve put behind them. 

[Name] holds it in the palm of her hand when John offers it over. He doesn’t say a word, merely stares as she runs her finger around its halo. He remembers that she became a sister to him. Long before the others, they were the two questioning Dutch’s leadership from the start; it never felt right. They were unified in their mistrust and he’s willing to wager that they are the most scarred from those days: Knowing the tragedy coming and being unable to warn the others. It’s heartbreaking.

“I’m sorry you were there for it,” she says, looking up with tears on her cheeks. Somehow, she’s still composed, and John admires her for it. “No one should have to leave their brother when they’re…”

“Thank you,” he says, and means it. “I’m gettin’ there. Slowly, surely. Y’know.”

“I do.” [Name] turns the ring over and closes her fingers around it. Her eyes shut, basking in remembrance. Then she reaches across the table.

“[Name]—”

“Start that life Arthur was telling you to get.”

Reluctantly, John opens his hand and she drops the ring into it. She holds his hand for a beat, smiling, then lets go. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bother,” she says. “Keep the journal, too.”

John’s brow knits. “Don’t you want somethin’ to...remember him by…? I’ll give ya anythin’ ya need if ya ask for it—”

“I haven’t been completely honest with you, John.”

That puts a stop to his thoughts. His mouth hangs open, mid-word, gaping like a fish. “With what?”

“My life. My _new_ life. Oh, John…” [Name] plants her palms on the table and stands up. She offers a hand down to him. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone—I was so terrified—I had nowhere to go—”

“[Name], [Name].” John stands up, too, and touches her knuckles. “What’s goin’ on? What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing _wrong_ , necessarily. I—oh, John, let me just show you. You gotta be quiet, though.”

Mystified, John allows her to blindly guide him to a closed door in the cabin. Very slowly, [Name] opens the door and pokes her head inside. “Don’t wake her,” is all she says, but it makes John’s feet as heavy as lead as he’s brought into the room, already knowing what he’s about to walk in on.

And, unbelievably, there’s a small bed and an even smaller person laying within it. A little girl with dirty blonde hair and pouty lips as she soundlessly sleeps. She can’t be more than four years old.

“I don’t understand,” breathes John.

“She’s Arthur’s, John. I got pregnant before the bank robbery. I didn’t realize until...it was after he was already gone.”

John hovers in the room, unable to look away from the little girl nor let go of [Name]’s hand. “What’s her name?”

“Isabelle.”

 _Isabelle Morgan._ He likes the sound of that. All that talk from Arthur about leaving, being a man and getting a life, and little did he know that he was leaving a new one behind. If he hadn’t been so sick or hadn’t been so damn stupid to stay on that rock, Arthur could’ve had it all. [Name] and Arthur could be out there somewhere new with their beautiful little girl, happy and free.

“It’s so sweet of you to want to give these things to me,” she says once they leave the room, “but I have Arthur still.”

“She looks just like him,” agrees John.

[Name] smiles. “Acts just like him too. Already so stubborn—she drives me up the damn walls sometimes,” she says with a touch of humor. She twiddles her thumbs, looking down. Softly, she adds, “I talk to her about Arthur every day. I don’t want her to not know her father. Or her uncle.”

Their eyes touch, and John shakes his head. “I don’t wanna disrupt what you got here—”

“When Abigail comes back, I want you, her, and Jack to come visit. Anytime you want. Bring Sadie and Charles, too. You can leave behind Uncle,” she says, and John can’t help laughing. “All of you were the only ones I trusted. I don’t mind sharing a little part of this life with you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner—”

“Don’t. A mother’s gotta do what’s best. You hadda get outta there.”

[Name] walks John out the door and to his horse. She kisses his cheek and gives him a long hug. Somewhere through all the trouble and all the deaths, he learned to love her too. There were many times when John only had her to talk to and understand where he was coming from. She always seemed to be on the same page as him as everyone else lived in their hazes. 

As he mounts his horse and she climbs the steps to the door, John says, “I don’t think I gotta tell ya just how much Arthur loved ya.”

She smiles warmly. “No, you don’t.”

John nods. He flicks the reins and tips his hat—the very same one Arthur gave to him—to [Name] as he kicks up the horse into a trot, wandering out of Strawberry and, hopefully, not completely out of her life.


End file.
